


you were supposed to be awful

by farfetched



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Aziraphales realises, Feelings Realization, Inspired by Art, M/M, Nonbinary Crowley (Good Omens), Other, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 05:20:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20058655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/farfetched/pseuds/farfetched
Summary: Aziraphale would have none of the problems he currently has, if Crowley had just been worse than he had been.





	you were supposed to be awful

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this piece: https://the-pastel-peach.tumblr.com/post/185715151167/i-needed-more-pining-aziraphale-dont-repost-my

_I need you to be a monster._

Aziraphale looks out into the street, or in many ways, far beyond it. There isn't much traffic outside, being so early, but neural traffic has always run fast for him, and especially so now. 

There is a palpable tension in his chest, an ache on breathing that comes just a little too fast. He fancies that he could crush that which hurts him so, but he is sadly far beyond that. Far, far beyond. 

He does not close his eyes, because he knows what he will see. And he can't. 

He cannot. Not at all, not ever, but nobody told his heart that. Nobody, himself included, had firmly told him that things like this could not ever happen. 

But- angels do not eat. Angels do not own bookshops. Angels do not dash over to France for a crepe and find themselves a prison cell and- 

And it all just leads back to them, doesn't it? 

Aziraphale drops his head into his hands and groans dramatically. 

He may not have Fallen. But he has tripped up and is now falling. 

And that? Is possibly the worst most dangerous thing he's done. So far. 

Now he sees them. Grabbing the bag of books from the dead hands of a nazi. Now he seems them. Walking jauntily down the aisle of a dark church to help him. Now he sees them, a private smile, a shared cup of tea, drinking together and all these things he should not have nor wish to have. 

If Crowley had only been more demonic. More monstrous. More callous, rude, hedonistic. Had they only been less considerate, less amenable to his whims of fancy, less... friendly. If Aziraphale had not continued having to remind himself of Crowley's Fallen status, perhaps it would have been easier. Perhaps he might not have tripped up so. 

Yet Aziraphale's heart has always been so human and conflicted. The one thing he cannot possibly have, he wants. A business arrangement seems the best he can do without pushing either way. Neither closer nor away. 

But oh. How he wants to pull closer. How he wishes he could simply leave heaven behind. How he wishes Crowley would do the same for him - and yet how he wishes they wouldn't. 

_which is to say I'm trying not to love you_

He has become so accustomed to the dread that he simply stopped feeling it. False: he stopped feeling guilty about it. With heaven appeased so long as he checks in, the arrangement working perfectly well, and regular meetings for tea and cake and alcohol- he's started to welcome the dread. 

As the dread carries a flavour now that's far more familiar. Far sweeter, far more lingering on his tongue, a sweetness that burns away to bitterness with that which he cannot have. Dread is sour. And this is dread no longer. 

_which is to say I'm still dreaming of kissing your claws._

His fingertips press hard into his scalp, an ache that does little to dissuade his mind of its distractions. Thoughts of Crowley swirl like milk in tea; nowhere then everywhere, and Aziraphale has trouble disseminating what has not been touched with just a hint of sulphur in his most long indulgence. 

This indulgence which shall end him. This indulgence that may birth him anew in all the wrong ways. This indulgence he keeps returning to, like an addict to their pipe, like a moth to a lamp. Knowing the danger but so drawn, ignoring the warnings of a thousand tongues to press deeper into this indulgence of his and let himself be tempted. 

_Friendship, companionship, Knowing_

Aziraphale wants to Know, and be Known. Heaven knows only what it wishes to see, and he tired so quickly of their surface attachments, craving that which runs oh so deeper, risking the knife to get to the heart and with that, Crowley had started to Know. And Aziraphale in kind, had started to Know. 

Knowing has dangers. Knowing is an apple in the Garden, Knowing is stepping too close and smelling a divine scent of wisdom and power and old old magics. 

Aziraphale craves that Knowing. It shall undo him, then, that Crowley appears to crave much the same. 

His fingertips press ruthlessly harder into the scalp of his body. This will not end him, not like Knowing, not like indulgences of millennia, not like- 

Aziraphale laughs, a hollow, tired, empty laugh. It is a laugh of giving up. 

"I needed you to be a monster, Crowley..." He murmurs, into the aching silence of the shop. "You are destroying me because you're not."

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! I feel like Aziraphale was very conflicted about his feelings in a way that Crowley wasn't. Potentially Crowley might have been applauded, particularly if he'd made Aziraphale fall (even though that was never his intention). Aziraphale could have had everything taken away from him, and been forced back to heaven, which would have been... pretty bad for him.
> 
> Also posted on tumblr here: https://silverliningslurk.tumblr.com/post/186684619601/soooooooo-i-saw-this-piece-of-art-and-got-kinda


End file.
